


Fever

by thecommonplaceofexistence



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, BAMF John, Dehydration, Doctor John Watson, Fluff, Gen, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson is a very good doctor, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Medical Procedures, Non-Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Pneumonia, Sick John, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecommonplaceofexistence/pseuds/thecommonplaceofexistence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns from his holiday to find Sherlock in less than perfect condition. Nothing gets easier, and both men are tested in their attempts to keep each other going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first try at something like this, give it a read and let me know what you think!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leaving Sherlock for that length of time was never going to end well really, was it?

On the day that John returned to 221b Baker Street, he could tell something was wrong. He’d had no correspondence from Sherlock in the last 3 days of his holiday, and although he hadn't expected much from him, he’d received semi-frequent text messages throughout the rest of his trip. He tried the door and, upon finding it locked, produced his key from his pocket to let himself in. Mrs Hudson was not to be found, and he presumed she’d gone to see her grandchildren, as she did most weekends.

There was no noise coming from upstairs, and the hairs on the back of John’s neck stood on end as his mind wandered to worst case scenarios. Burglaries, shootings, hostage situations? Anything could happen with a home-alone Sherlock Holmes. His time in the army had made his reflexes quicker than most, and he knew he could take down one or maybe two men of average build. With more, he’d need backup. His hand wandered to his pocket as he contemplated texting Sherlock first, but pulled away when he realised the implications that could have. What if one of the men heard the phone and knew he was here? He just had to go for it. He looked around, his eyes fixing on a rolling pin in the corner of the kitchen. He took a stride over and took it in his hand, gripping it and making his way slowly up the stairs.

He made as little noise as possible, his knowledge of the creaks in the left corner of the 4th step up making all the difference, John thought. As he reached the top, he noticed the door was ajar, and nudged it carefully with the toe of his heavy duty walking boot. They were his retired army boots, but served him well in the cold winter months in London. The door swung further than John had anticipated, and he almost fell back down the stairs in an attempt to conceal himself from the men that he so honestly believed would be inside.

He re-adjusted himself at the realisation that the flat was seemingly empty. His and Sherlock’s chairs sat just as they had been when he had left, and case notes lay strewn carelessly all over the desk as usual. John straightened his coat, glad that nobody was there to witness his lack of composure. As he placed his weapon of choice down on the desk amongst various unopened case files and screwed up post-it notes, he heard noise that resembled a squeak. He listened harder and it repeated.

“J-hn?”  
It was coming from the bathroom, and John’s feet moved almost without his mind processing as he recognised his best friend’s voice.

“Sherlock? What the hell are yo-“  
As John’s head peered round the bathroom door, his eyes cast on the most pitiful looking consulting detective he had ever seen. Sherlock was slumped on the floor, barely propped up by the wall behind his head. His skin was pale and sweat beaded across his forehead, dampening his dark curls, sticking some to his head while others stuck out unceremoniously. His clothes had obviously not changed for days, and his shirt remained on him only by the fastening of one button in the middle. John knelt down before Sherlock, whose face twisted in a sort of lopsided smile, and it was almost as though a switch flicked in his head as the doctor in him sprang to life.

“Sherlock, how long have you been like this?” He asked, laying the back of one hand to the detective’s forehead; far too warm.

“D-no, a while” Sherlock sighed. He attempted to clear his throat and set off on a string of deep, rattling coughs. John stretched his arms behind his back; pulling him and helping him sit upright. His hands rubbed circles on Sherlock’s back until the coughs subsided and he slumped back into John’s arms. John noted the shivers.

“We need to move you. You can’t stay down here.” He said quietly. He knew he needed to treat whatever it was Sherlock had, and he couldn’t gather all the information he needed from on the floor of a bathroom. Sherlock nodded silently, his eyelids drooping. John shook him slightly.

“Sherlock, you need to stay alert, okay? D’ya think you can stand up?” John held tightly to Sherlock’s frame as the taller man struggled to push himself off the floor. It took a while, but eventually John managed to get Sherlock standing. The detective was shaking harder now, his breathing coming harsh and fast as he clung to the material of John’s coat. 

“That’s it,” John sighed, “Not far and then you can lie down, okay?”  
The 10 or so steps into John’s bedroom were slow, and the wheezing from Sherlock just continued to worry him more. Sherlock let out a low wheeze as John lowered him down and his body hit the mattress, and John pulled his legs round so he was laid flat. Sherlock set off on another round of wheezy and exhausting coughs, deep in his lungs and causing him to gasp for breath after.

“..h’rts” the detective murmured between breaths. John dug around under the bed, pulling out his black bag and placing it on the bed bedside Sherlock as he took a seat by his head. 

“What hurts?” John spoke loudly, trying to keep the attention of the other man. His fingers found a quick and thready pulse at Sherlock’s right wrist. “I need you to talk to me. When did this start? What are your symptoms?” 

“started y-yesterday, head, chest, stomach, e’rything.” Sherlock mumbled, his body shaking. “M’ cold.”  
John nodded, his mind flicking through substances the detective could have come into contact with, viruses, poisons. “I’m gonna need to examine you, Sherlock. Then you can have some medicine and go to sleep, yeah? Try and breathe” He dug around in his bag as a small nod from the other man confirmed he’d be acknowledged. John pulled out a digital thermometer, set it to zero and took Sherlock’s chin in his hand. “Can you open your mouth a bit for me?”

Sherlock did as he was told, and John busied himself warming his stethoscope on his hand while he waited for the device to beep. The reading was grim, and John swore under his breath.

“-wha?” Sherlock breathed.

“39 degrees, you need to cool down” John said sternly. Sherlock sensed an edge of panic in his words.

“but ‘m freezing” He said softly. John sighed. 

“I know, but it’s not actually cold in here. You just feel cold because of your body trying to fight off whatever illness you’ve managed to contract.” He told him. Sherlock did not argue. He trusted John, and he felt too miserable to argue. Besides, if John didn’t know how to make him better, who would?  
John pulled Sherlock forwards slowly with one hand, his other trying feebly to undo the remaining button on the front of his shirt. “Give me a hand, mate” he said as he pulled on the sleeves. Sherlock’s arms weakly extended, shaky but slightly helpful in getting his shirt off all the same. John pulled at the remaining fabric; screwing up the damp and creased dress shirt and throwing it across the room before settling the tall man back, sitting against the pillows. He made quick work of Sherlock’s trousers, undoing the buttons and then sliding them straight off, sending them flying in roughly the same direction of the shirt.

Sherlock’s teeth chattered as the air ran over his overly warm chest, causing his shivers to increase. John strode swiftly to the wardrobe, pulling a thin blue blanket from the top cupboard and laying it over his boxer-clad roommate. “Right” he sighed, taking his position beside Sherlock. “I know you’re cold. I’ll get you something for your fever in a minute. You need to drink some water as well.”

Sherlock nodded again, making no sound but blinking at John with glossy, feverish eyes. John gave a half smile and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls once before turning and retrieving his stethoscope from where he’d discarded it on the bed. Re-warming the end, he put the earpieces in his ears and moved one hand to Sherlock’s waist to steady him. 

“Deep breaths, Sherlock.” He said softly, pressing the diaphragm to the middle of his chest. Sherlock’s heart was racing, and the unmistakeable rattles that John heard with his rapid breathing confirmed his diagnosis. He moved the stethoscope around, checking both lungs thoroughly before removing it and putting it back in his bag. John moved his hand back down to Sherlock’s wrist, taking it in his hand and pressing three fingers to feel his pulse thrumming there.

“You need to focus on your breathing; your pulse is too fast.” He looked up at the detective. He looked slightly less flustered than he had earlier, but his eyes were still-fever bright as the movement of his chest slowed. John smiled; it was typical of Sherlock to contract pneumonia and not something simple like a common cold. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s chest and breathed with him for a minute, satisfied when the thrumming beneath his hand reduced to something that almost resembled a normal rhythm.

John presumed Sherlock was already aware of the exact type of bacteria attacking his lungs, but he would tell him later just in case. John’s first priority was getting him hydrated and comfortable, and for a second he wondered how he could do that without taking him to hospital. Ideally, an IV would get his dehydration under control, as well as administering antibiotics to fight the infection, and in a hospital environment John would have direct access to monitoring for his vitals at all times. He know that would be best for Sherlock, and would mean a quicker recovery time, but he also knew the fuss Sherlock could kick up when he didn’t want to do something. 

“That’s loads better.” He sighed. “Ideally, I’d like to take you to hospital.”  
Sherlock’s eyes widened. “N-no. You’re a doctor.” He muttered; his voice stronger now his breathing was under control. John shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

“I know, but I can’t treat you here. Sherlock, you have pneumonia. I need monitoring, an IV, oxygen, not to mention the medication you need.” He said; an edge to his voice. He was almost angry at himself that he wasn’t enough to help. Sherlock took a shallow breath in. 

“I’m not going to a b-b-loody hospital. Call Mycroft, he’ll help.” He rasped. John returned his hand to his chest, reminding him to breathe. He was right; Mycroft could do anything.

When Sherlock had managed to control his breathing again, John got up and went to the kitchen, his mind telling him that Sherlock must be feeling pretty miserable to be okay with help from his brother. He returned a few minutes later with an array of bits and bobs. In his hand, he carried a small bowl of water; Sherlock noted it was chilled by the slight condensation on the side. In the water was a clean flannel, and in John’s other hand was two bottles of pills and a separate glass of water. He placed all of the items down on the small table by Sherlock’s head, shook two tablets out of one bottle and two from the other, and handed them to him with the glass of water. 

“Two of them are for pain and fever, the others are low-grade antibiotics. They’ll help” He said softly. Sherlock took the pills gratefully, giving a slight smile before putting them in his mouth, taking the water from John’s hands and sipping it carefully.

John helped Sherlock lie down, fluffing his pillows and moving the blanket up until it covered him fully. He pulled the flannel from the bowl of water on the table, ringing it out and placing it carefully on his forehead. Sherlock sighed at the cooling sensation it brought, and John stroked a hand through his hair as his eyes started to close. 

“Get some sleep; I’m going to call Mycroft.” He said softly, his fingers moving down and just resting at Sherlock’s carotid pulse before he got up, adjusting the blankets, and walked towards the bedroom door.

Sherlock thought he managed a “thank you” before he drifted off to sleep.


	2. Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank god for Mycroft Holmes and his minions.

John had just made himself a cup of coffee when his phone began to ring. He dug the chirping device out of his pocket and almost scoffed at the name on the screen as he answered the call.

"Mycroft, I should have known" 

"You should know by now, John, that where my brother is concerned I'm never far behind you." The older man replied. "What's the damage?" 

"He's got pneumonia, and a pretty bad case. I've managed to get him relatively comfortable but he needs treatment" 

Mycroft sighed from the other end of the phone line. "Typical. One of my associates will be in contact with you shortly. Tell him what you need and he will get it for you." 

John busied himself stirring his coffee, one ear always open for his flatmate in the other room. 

"Don't you think he should be in a hospital, Mycroft?"

"John, you and I both know that isn't going to happen. I will get you anything you could possibly need, I trust you have all the skills necessary to care for my brother." 

John rubbed a hand idly over the back of his neck. 

"If you think so."

"I do. My associate will be in touch within the hour." Mycroft sighed, John could almost hear him stiffening up. "Take care of him, John. I don't want to trouble the parent system with this." 

And the phone rang dead, just in time for Sherlock to set off coughing again. John set his untouched coffee down on the kitchen side and made his way swiftly to his flatmate's side. His hands found their way into Sherlock's dark curls, brushing them away from his face as his body shook from exertion. 

"That's it, easy. Try and breathe, Sherlock" John's other hand laid on his friend's chest, feeling his heart pounding from the pressure. The coughs seemed to last forever, and John found himself wincing with each gasp of breath Sherlock took in between. 

He had seen men in the field gasp like this after gunshot wounds or bombings, but it was somehow worse to see the almighty Sherlock Holmes brought to his knees by rattling coughs and not enough air. 

The coughs subsided slowly, and as Sherlock sat back John noted the blueish tinge on his lips. Keeping a hand on Sherlock's chest, John spoke with more urgency now. 

"I need you to take some deep breaths Sherlock, as deep as you can." The panic in his eyes must be evident, he thought. His mind was scrolling through facts, figures; oxygen saturations, time. Sats can't be above 70%, no way. Needs oxygen, now. 

His phone pulled him from his thoughts. Unknown number. John answered quickly, giving the other caller no chance to speak.

"I need an oxygen cylinder and a mask right now or I'm going to have to ring an ambulance" he spoke quickly, only now realising his breath coming fast. "Monitoring equipment; pulse, resps, blood pressure, sats. Chest X-ray. I need an IV line, analgesia, anti-emetics and antibiotics. How long?" 

"ETA 3 minutes" the man replied, and the phone went dead. 

John threw his phone across the bed and turned his attention back to Sherlock, who was panting heavily and sweating profusely. 

"Hey!" John snapped, pushing Sherlock in the chest. "Remember what I said? Deep breaths" Sherlock looked at him from heavy lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling awkwardly as he tried to steady his breathing. John placed his hand back to his chest "Breathe with me." 

"Hurts" Sherlock wheezed, pained eyes fixed on John's face.

"I know, love" John replied, sighing. He was surprised how difficult he found it to see his friend like this. "I just need you to hang on for just a bit longer and then you can sleep, okay?" 

Sherlock nodded, and John ran a hand once more through his dark curls before a brisk knock at the door sounded.

"Keep your breathing steady, Sherlock. I just have to get this" John said quietly, pulling himself away from his flatmate. John couldn't help but worry about the numbers again, imagining his organs struggling for oxygen. 

He half- ran to the door and was met by a stern looking man dressed in a black suit. "Doctor Watson" he said quickly, bundling a large bag into John's arms. John nodded at him in response, and another man appeared from behind, bustling past John with a monitor in one arm and a large tank in the other, almost lost under a mass of cables. He placed the monitor down on the kitchen table and returned to his spot behind the taller man in the doorway, leaving the oxygen tank beside John. 

"Do you require any assistance, Doctor Watson?" The man asked. John shook his head slowly.

"I will ring if there are any problems." He replied.

"Mr Holmes requests that you keep him informed on his brothers condition, please call if you have any concerns." 

John nodded once more. "Thank you." And shut the door, turning quickly to get back to Sherlock. John wheeled the oxygen tank through to the bedroom, the large duffel bag tucked under his arm, and perched himself next to Sherlock on the bed. 

The detective was looking worse than ever, his breathing shallow and his whole body shaking with the effort. Sweat continued to bead on his face and the blueish tinge John had noted earlier was creeping further outwards. 

"Sherlock?" John said loudly, prompting very little response from the other man, mouth agape and eyes closed. John could tell that all his remaining energy was focused on just breathing. "I'm going to put some oxygen on you, it'll help you with your breathing okay?"

Sherlock nodded slightly, his chest heaving unnaturally. John dug around in the duffel bag, noticing an array of items, bags of fluid, IV packs and the such. He pulled out a non-rebreathe mask and attached the tubing to the oxygen tank. Cranking it up to the full 15 litres, he held it over Sherlock's mouth and nose, securing the ties around the back of his head. "Deep breaths, Sherlock. This should help." 

Sherlock shifted slightly, and John noted that although still struggling, he relaxed slightly against the mattress. John strode quickly into the kitchen and retrieved the monitoring equipment, clearing the nicknacks out of the way and setting the large boxy contraption on top of the dressing table beside Sherlock. 

John clipped the pulse oximeter onto the end of Sherlock's left index finger, waiting impatiently and then swearing under his breath when the monitor read a grim 69%. An alarm chimed loudly, and John promptly silenced it. 

He dug around in the bag once again, pulling 5 electrodes out. After removing the backing, he stuck them carefully to areas of Sherlock's chest, and once the wires were connected, a fast and not quite regular rhythm displayed on the screen. 

"Christ, Sherlock." He muttered. "Sats of 69% and a heart rate of 163, how are you still conscious?" 

This warranted a slight snigger from Sherlock, who looked significantly more comfortable after only a few minutes on the oxygen. John glanced at the monitor again; sats of 79%, getting there. 

"Not good?" Sherlock asked between breaths, his voice muffled from the mask.

"A bit not good, yeah" John replied, stretching out a hand to stroke softly through the detective's unruly curls. Sherlock closed his eyes at the touch. 

"Hold your arm out for me, mate" John asked, tugging the blanket back and securing a blood pressure cuff around Sherlock's outstretched and shaky right arm. He noted the cool clammy feel to his skin and re-covered him with the blanket. 

John fiddled with the monitor for a moment, setting it to automatically check Sherlock's blood pressure every 15 minutes. As the cuff inflated, John grabbed the thermometer from the side and stuck it in Sherlock's ear. 

"39.4" he sighed "Can I have a go at putting a cannula in you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged, annoyed that so much of his energy had been wasted on boring things like breathing. "You're the doctor" he replied groggily, clearly exhausted. 

John smiled pitifully at him, "It'll help, trust me."

Sherlock scoffed. "I know it will, John." And at that John smiled, at least the arrogant backchat was something he was used to.

John busied himself preparing everything he needed to cannulate, and even managed to find his phone in the meantime. Sherlock had almost drifted off to sleep by the time John made it back to his side, and John managed to palpate a suitable vein in the back of Sherlock's left hand without any complaint from the other man.

"Just a scratch, Sherlock" he warned. Sherlock let out a low hum in response and John managed to get the needle in with no trouble. "I'm going to tape it down, promise me you won't mess with it?" 

There was no response from Sherlock, and on looking up John realised he was asleep. He taped the cannula in place with as much tape as he possibly could and then bandaged on top just to make sure. 

John pulled a bottle of paracetamol and some saline from the duffel bag and hung them both from the curtain rail, connecting them to Sherlock's cannula and stepping back. 

Looking over the monitors, John felt slightly more at ease. Sherlock's saturations were maintaining at 92% and his blood pressure wasn't too bad at 103/52, even if slightly on the low side. His temperature was high but John was hopeful that the paracetamol might take some effect. John noted that Sherlock's heart rate had remained high since he returned home, and was still hovering in the low 130s. He made a mental note to keep an eye on it. 

Sherlock had gone quiet, the only noise in the room the whooshing from the stream of oxygen, the steady beep from the monitors and his wheezing chest. John was glad he'd fallen asleep, maybe he'd finally get some rest.

Sighing, John left the room and eyed his coffee on the kitchen side, now stone cold. He pondered for a moment what might have happened to the great and powerful Sherlock Holmes had he not come back from his holiday when he did. Would he have lived through it? John doubted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had loads of fun writing this. I'm sorry for all the medical jargon, but I'm a nurse and I love reading it in everyone else's works. If you'd like me to do a glossary then please let me know.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, and I am honestly sorry it's taken me two years to update this story.


	3. Two Steps Forward

John poured his coffee away, too fed up to make himself a fresh one, and took this opportunity to take stock of what Mycroft's servants had provided him with. He pulled the heavy bag over onto the sofa and sat down beside it, laying the contents out on the living room floor. 

He counted in his head as he pulled items from the bag. 6 bags of normal saline, 8 bottles of paracetamol, 7 doses of antibiotic (Levofloxacin no less, one of John's favourites), a spare cannulation pack, 4 spare needles, a nasal cannula, and an assortment of blood taking bottles laying in the bottom of the bag. John took his time organising each item into careful piles on the drawers in the bedroom opposite Sherlock. 

When the doorbell rang, it jolted John slightly. Who would bother calling at 9pm on a Sunday? He walked briskly to the door, and was met by a young-ish blonde girl. In her arms she carried a large contraption, and John recognised it from his limited work at the hospital.

"I've come to do a chest x-ray" the girl chirped happily. "I'm Chrissy" 

John smiled, he'd forgotten. Damn, Mycroft is good. "Hi Chrissy, come on in." He laughed quietly at himself as the girl carried the machine through the threshold and into the flat. "He's just through here."

He led the girl through into the bedroom and stood aside while she got herself ready.

"He doesn't look good, does he?" She said quietly, pulling an apron over her head. John sighed, looking over at the mess of wires and hard breathing that lay in a heap on his bed.

"I have no idea how he managed to get himself in such a state, I was only gone a week." He replied. Chrissy shrugged, pulling on a pair of gloves.

"I guess it's a good job you came back when you did." 

John moved over to Sherlock's side, shaking him slightly.

"Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock?" The detective jolted awake, eyes darting around the room and his breath coming faster. The monitor alarmed loudly as his heart rate picked up in the panic. John took his shoulders in his hands and spoke softly. 

"It's alright, Sherlock, I'm here, just breathe." Sherlock's eyes met John's and he slowly settled back, eyes blinking slowly. The alarming from the monitor took longer to fade, but as Sherlock relaxed against the pillows, his heart rate crawled back down below dangerous levels. The shrill noise ceased, replaced only by a quick beep, matching his heart rate.

"Sorry John," he said quietly "it appears I was a bit disorientated." 

John smiled slightly. "It's okay bud, not your fault. Can you try and sit forward for me so we can get this chest x-ray?" 

Sherlock nodded meekly, coughing slightly under his oxygen mask. John glanced over at the monitor; sats still 92%. John hooked his arms under Sherlock's and pulled, helping the other man to sit up straight. Chrissy placed a board behind his back and Sherlock sat against it.

"This is horribly -cough- uncomfortable you know John." He said quietly, voice still muffled. 

John just glared at him, and Chrissy nodded to say she was happy.

"Just two seconds Sherlock, don't be a baby." John laughed, moving to stand outside the room.

He took this opportunity to update Mycroft, pulling his phone from his pocket. He dialled the number quickly, taking a seat in his chair as it started ringing. The older Holmes answered after only one ring.

"Doctor Watson." 

"Hello, Mycroft."

"Are you ringing to update me? I trust my baby brother is not giving you any bother?"

John laughed, "Only the usual amount, Mycroft. He's doing better, thank you for sending all those supplies." 

"You're most welcome, John. Is there anything else you require from me?" 

"If I take some blood from him do you think you could send somebody to collect it? I don't have the equipment to analyse it"

"Of course, somebody will be round this afternoon."

"Great, thanks." 

"Do keep me informed, John."

"I will, thanks Mycroft." And the phone rang dead. Mycroft Holmes had always been a man of few words and pleasantries. 

Chrissy shouted to John that she was finished, and John went to help adjust Sherlock's pillows so he was sat somewhat upright. 

"My back is aching, would you help me lie down John?" Sherlock asked. John shook his head slightly.

"Not right now buddy, sitting up is better for your chest and your breathing. Just bear with it." Sherlock nodded quietly, and John almost didn't hear his apathetic sigh. He knitted a hand into Sherlock's hair once more, scratching his scalp lightly. 

Walking Chrissy through to the living room, John thanked her. 

"It's no bother," she replied, balancing the heavy machine in her arms. "Mr Holmes will have the results and the films sent to your email within the hour." 

John nodded, "Will you be back tomorrow?" 

She nodded quietly, "Have a good day, Doctor Watson."

The young girl smiled once more at John before turning and walking out of the door and down the stairs. John hoped for a second that she would not hurt herself, carrying something so heavy. 

Shutting the door behind her, John peered in on Sherlock, who was idly twiddling with the ECG wires. John left him to it, as long as no harm was done he would let him get away with it. 

John made his way over to the drawers in the bedroom, and for a second marvelled at how well he'd placed all of his equipment, if he did say so himself. He picked up a bottle of the antibiotics and a giving set, quickly priming the line before walking over to Sherlock.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, his eyes following John's hand as he disconnected the empty paracetamol bottle. 

"Levofloxacin." John replied, attaching it to the open port of Sherlock's IV line. "Antibiotics." 

He hung the antibiotics next to the fluids on the curtain pole, retrieving the paracetamol bottle and throwing it in the bedroom bin."Can I take some blood from you, Sherlock?"

The other man rolled his eyes. "I thought maybe you might have finished prodding my veins by now."

John laughed, "I'm never finished."

Walking back to his supplies, John found himself a few blood bottles and a small needle. He perched on the bed beside Sherlock, and took his right arm in his hands. His eyes scanned his inner elbows for a vein.

"You won't manage with those," Sherlock said, his eyes closed and facing he ceiling. "You'll have to use my hands instead." 

John listened, flipping Sherlock's arm round and taking his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He found a vein quickly enough. "Sharp scratch, Sherlock." 

The needle was in, blood taken and back out again in less than a minute, and Sherlock found himself genuinely impressed. John pressed a piece of gauze to the site, securing it with tape.

Picking the blood bottles up, he took them into the kitchen and placed them down on the side, turning them over in his hands slightly to prevent them clotting.

John turned and looked at Sherlock with a pitiful smile on his face, he had to admit, the other man didn't actually look much better. His face remained flushed and sweaty, and his breathing was still laboured and wheezy.

"How do you feel?" He asked Sherlock, walking towards him.

Sherlock seemed to ponder this question for a while. "Lousy." He finally replied. "But better than earlier, the extra oxygen is a great help." 

John sniggered, sitting down next to Sherlock on the bed, swinging his legs round and propping himself up against the headboard. It felt strangely nice to put his feet up. "I'm glad it's helping, you scared me a bit earlier." He sighed, his arm raising as Sherlock nudged himself closer to John. 

Sherlock squirmed slightly under the covers, trying to get his head closer to John's chest. He craved to cuddle into him, but this bloody oxygen and all his wires prevented him from turning on his side. He gave up eventually, only managing to scoot a few inches closer than before. He'd never been a man for physical affection, and he blamed the illness for making him effeminate and needy. "I apologise for scaring you, John. I did not expect my body to be weakened so much." 

John laughed, "You're an idiot.", winding his hands into Sherlock's hair once again. The detective hummed at the touch. "You've got pneumonia, it could have killed you." 

John stiffened slightly, Sherlock felt it beside him. "Why didn't you call me?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Didn't wanna bother you." 

Wide eyes looked up at John, still glossy with fever and bright like a cat's. John smiled. As much as he really could get on his last wick, nobody could make John Watson smile like Sherlock Holmes could. 

"You're daft." John sighed, shuffling down on the bed and closing his eyes. "Now go to sleep."

Sherlock shuffled slightly, getting comfy, and within minutes John could hear his breathing slowing. Eyes still closed, he found Sherlock's hand and pulled it into him, his fingers finding the pulse point at his wrist. 

The two men fell asleep like that, content with one another, and John put at ease by the constant thrumming under his fingertips. 

It continued like that for several hours, and when John finally woke, it was to the shrill noise that he dreaded hearing most. 

His eyes snapped open, darting to the offending monitor. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this kinda ended up as a bit of a filler, I apologise for the lack of drama in this one.  
> Don't worry, the drama will return in the next! :)


	4. Three Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deteriorates and John struggles with his confidence.

All the numbers flashed red in unison, and John scanned them, his panic rising with each one. Blood pressure through the floor, heart rate over 160 and rising, oxygen saturations 60%. He swore under his breath.

John's eyes found Sherlock's face, sunken slightly and deathly pale beneath the oxygen mask.

"Sherlock?!" He shouted, shaking his friend's shoulders. "Can you hear me?"

Sherlock's eyes were closed, and it took John roughly 3 seconds to realise he couldn't see the sharp rise and fall of his chest as before; 3 seconds to realise he couldn't hear the wheeze; 3 seconds to realise his best friend wasn't breathing.

The monitor shrilled loudly as John grappled for his phone, his other hand roughly fumbled for Sherlock's carotid pulse. He dialled the three digits clumsily, feeling the too quick and too faint thrum of Sherlock's pulse beneath his fingers.

"999, which service do you re-"

"Ambulance" John barked, his hand moving from Sherlock's neck to tilt his chin as he hovered over him. He pulled the oxygen mask off, untangling it from his hair and discarding it on the floor.

"London Ambulance, please tell me your full address." The operator said calmly. It almost infuriated John that he did not immediately grasp the severity of the situation.

"221b Baker Street, I have a man in respiratory arrest that requires immediate intubation." John realised now just how fast his own breathing was, and took half a second to steady himself. "I'm a doctor, I'm going to start rescue breaths, just hurry up."

He hung up and shoved his phone in his pocket, he didn't have time to answer questions about the blue tinge to Sherlock's lips or how fast his heart was weakening.

John took a moment to check inside Sherlock's mouth; no blockage, and as he pressed his lips to his to give his first breath, facts and figures plagued his mind. He'd seen this kind of thing claim the lives of men much healthier than Sherlock, and the thought brought a tear to his eye. He swiped it away quickly as he breathed the first breath into his friend's too-still body. Sherlock's chest rose in response as his lungs filled with John's air, and then collapsed back again, empty and still.

John repeated, the monitors screaming in the background. This was so wrong; breathing used, dirty air into Sherlock Holmes' body. It made John feel sick to his stomach, and tears stung his eyes as he came up for another breath.

His fingers dug hard into Sherlock's carotid artery still, the faint woosh of blood there giving little hope or relief to John. He looked over to the monitor again; heart rate falling now, 103, a definite arrhythmia. John suppressed a sob as he cradled the detective's head in his hands.

'Please Sher, don't-'

He couldn't cry, bowing his head to give another breath. He was shaking, but he had a job to do. Sherlock Holmes was not dying today.

Breathe.

Release.

Breathe.

Release.

Breathe.

John felt numb, everything was wrong and alien and _this shouldn't be happening._

The monitor continued to alarm, saturations down to 58% and blood pressure so low it couldn't even get a figure.

There was rustling downstairs when John bowed his head again.

Voices by the second time.

By the third breath, 2 paramedics were in the room, and John allowed himself to finally sit back, tears stinging his eyes as one placed a bag-valve mask over Sherlock's face and took over his breathing. John would kick Mycroft later for not providing him with one.

"Well done mate, you've done a good job." One of the paramedics said to John. She was young, ginger hair cut to a bob at her chin. She was disconnecting monitors and attaching Sherlock to new ones. "What happened?"

"I'm a doctor." John said quietly, amazed by how weak his voice sounded. He pushed himself up straight and cleared his throat. "He's got bacterial pneumonia, says it began 2 days ago but I can't be certain about that. He's been on 15 litres of oxygen since yesterday and his sats were maintaining in the low 90's, woke up about 10 minutes ago and he wasn't breathing."

John took a second to breathe, his head swimming with information. Sherlock's vitals had appeared on the new monitors, just as grim as before.

"I can't get a blood pressure on him, last one I got was 62/25. He's had 1 litre of IV fluid, 500mg of paracetamol and 500mg of Levofloxacin IV."

The paramedic looked at John with wide eyes, nodding and turning to her partner.

"We should intubate him before we move him, leaving it any longer is risky." She said quickly. The other paramedic, a man who John would guess to be in his late 30's, nodded in agreement and continued controlling Sherlock's breathing. John thought he'd never felt more useless in his whole life.

The female paramedic ('Wendy', if her nametag was anything to go by) busied herself collecting things from a bag on the bed beside Sherlock. John almost couldn't watch as, between breaths, she slipped a tube right down Sherlock's throat. She did so with precision and excellent timing, and the other paramedic resumed pushing oxygen into Sherlock the minute she'd finished securing it.

John didn't know what to do with himself. The paramedics moved Sherlock swiftly onto a waiting gurney and he found himself following idly behind as they carried him down the stairs.

Passers-by gawped as they loaded him into the ambulance and John hopped in behind. He didn't even have the energy to worry about the press getting ahold of this.

As the doors closed and the engine started, John looked over his best friend. The stark lighting of the ambulance made him look so much worse than before, his skin a horrible shade of grey and his features too prominent. The paramedic worked over him quickly and carefully, hanging fluids and connecting more monitoring. John didn't realise he was crying until she turned to him.

"Hey," She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "They'll do what they can for him, you know that." Her eyes were sympathetic, just lingering on him for a second before she turned back to Sherlock and continued working on him. Usually John would offer his assistance, but he was too drained and mentally exhausted to be of any use.

"I should have kept a better eye on him." He croaked, more to himself than to anyone else. "What sort of Doctor-"

"You can't blame yourself for this." Wendy interjected, not looking at him. "You know how fast this illness can progress. His body is tired, he just needs some time to rest." John didn't reply, his mind frantic behind his quiet exterior.

Sherlock Holmes had become so ill that his body had just _quit breathing,_ and this had all happened under John's care. John swallowed hard and furrowed his brow, why was he the one moping? If this was his fault, then surely he should be trying to fix it? He scrubbed his face harshly with his hands.

"Tell me what's happening." He said to Wendy. She sighed loudly before speaking, holding tightly onto a grab rail above her head as the ambulance turned a corner.

"He's more stable now he's intubated. Sats aren't bad but we've got him on high flow oxygen, and blood pressure isn't much better. I think they've got a bed for him on ICU when we get there."

The ride in the ambulance didn't last much longer, but John felt more like himself by the time they arrived. He spent the last minutes in the ambulance listening to Sherlock's chest, swearing under his breath at the noisy crackles on his lungs, much worse than yesterday.

When the doors to the ambulance opened, everything went too fast. Wendy and John took it in turn to shout things to the A&E staff as they pushed Sherlock into the hospital, people were running and injecting things into his IV. People were shouting things about brain damage and chest drains and John couldnt keep his head straight, couldn't even see Sherlock under the mess of wires and hands on him. 

He was almost pushed over when a nurse led him back behind some double doors.

"You need to wait here for a bit." She said quietly.

"I'm a doctor," John barked at her, probably too harshly. He'd lost count of how many times he'd had to tell people his occupation. "I need to be back there with him." She shook her head and squeezed his shoulder. John didn't want her pity.

"Just let our doctors get him sorted. We will come and get you when they're ready." She turned around and walked away.

John thought about following her, thought about demanding his right to stay. He changed his mind when he looked down at his hands and noticed them shaking.

He looked around him. Some kind of relatives room; pale green walls, a coffee machine and 8 padded chairs. He perched himself on one of them, allowing himself a deep breath and scrubbing his face with his hands again. He pulled his phone out with shaky hands, thumb pressing on Mycroft's name in his contacts list. He almost didn't realise the time; 06.13am.

Mycroft answered after just one ring. "John? Is everything alright?" John would have chuckled slightly had it not been for the gravity of the situation.

"We're at Bart's. He stopped breathing." There was a slight pause while the older brother composed himself.

"How is he?"

"They've intubated him but they won't let me back there." John sighed. ''I'm sorry, Mycroft."

The guilt was back, and John rested his head in his spare hand as he contemplated the situation. He didn't even want to think about the worst case scenario.

"I'm coming down." Mycroft's voice was calm and strong. "I'll be ten minutes."

John hung up the phone, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he focused on his breathing to steady himself.

When Mycroft Holmes entered the room, John hadn't moved an inch, head still resting on the wall behind him. Mycroft took a seat silently beside him.

"I've secured him a private room in ICU. You will have full medical control over his care." John looked at him, wide-eyed.

"Mycroft, I don't think I-"

"There will be a consultant at your disposal as well as a full team of nurses. They have been told to run everything past you." John shook his head.

"I can't. I'm not enough for him, Mycroft." He sighed. "He nearly died today, and it's my fault."

Mycroft chuckled slightly. "It is not your fault, John. My brother always has known how to test us." There was a pause before Mycroft spoke again.

"I trust you more than any of these doctors, John. I will always trust you to do what is best for my brother. Please."

John nodded, but said nothing. The two men sat together like that for what felt like a lifetime, just silence between them as they waited.

A large man in blue scrubs entered the room, holding the door behind him. He nodded to each of the men in turn.

"Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes. If you'd like to follow me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These poor guys, I really am putting them through hell aren't I? 
> 
> I apologise for any mistakes, all of this fic is un-beta'd and so it's likely some will crop up at some point.
> 
> I'm having so much fun with this story, thank you to everyone that's still reading! Comments are welcome as always!


	5. Assistance

A large man in blue scrubs entered the room, holding the door behind him. He nodded to each of the men in turn.

“Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes. If you'd like to follow me.”

John and Mycroft followed the man along corridors that seemed never ending. The man and Mycroft exchanged glances which made John think they'd met before.

He was Sherlock's consultant, seemingly. He'd introduced himself to John as "Doctor Reynolds, but you can call me David."

He was a middle aged man, slightly younger than John but with a thinning hairline none the less. John wondered for a moment why Mycroft considered him to be the best for the job.

As they continued their walk through the hospital, David briefed John.

"We've managed to stabilise him and get him up to ICU. He's got bilateral chest drains in and he's still on the ventilator. We thought it best to leave him on it until his lungs are clearer and he's gained some strength back."

John rubbed a hand idly over his neck and continued walking as the doctor continued.

"He's definitely got a nasty bacteria in his lungs, he must have been run down for it to get this bad. He's right through here-"

John sighed outwardly, feeling more responsible than ever for leaving Sherlock on his own for the week. He should have known it was a bad idea.

The three men turned a corner into ICU, walking past the main bay and into a smaller corridor behind it. David showed John and Mycroft to a room on their left.

"I'll be at the nurses station, feel free to check through his notes if you need to, John. I'll let you have a minute and then I'll give you a full handover." David said quietly, smiling slightly and turning on his heel. John and Mycroft looked at each other in silence before John tried the door.

The room was quite large, and the lighting was dimmed to a soft glow. Large bay windows covered one wall, but the blinds were closed and only a small sliver of daylight peeped out at floor level. As John swung the door open, he had to focus just to stop his legs from buckling where he stood.

He'd never expected to see Sherlock Holmes like this, always a man of stature and presence; now so small and vulnerable in his hospital bed.

Sherlock's skin almost matched the colour of the white sheets around him, and metres of wires lead off his body to an array of monitors at his bedside. A tube that looked entirely wrong led from his mouth, meeting a green pipe and leading off to the ventilator. Another, smaller tube was in his nose. John approached his side somewhat nervously, eyes flitting between the man and the monitors above his head. It was nice to see him stable, at least.

John's hand outstretched to brush through Sherlock's hair without him even thinking about it, having forgotten that he wasn't alone with the other man. His hand rest in Sherlock's, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

Turning his head, John noticed Mycroft. The older Holmes brother was leaning in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth closed in a thin line.

"I didn't think it was this bad, John." He said meekly. John looked back to Sherlock, whose chest was rising and falling gently; a comfort in itself.

"It's really knocked him on his arse." John sighed. "He just needs some time."

Mycroft took a few strides to the other side of the bed, looking down at his younger brother. He placed a hand gently on the top of Sherlock's arm, his touch obscured by crossing IV lines.

"Get better, brother." He patted his hand gently against Sherlock's shoulder and straightened himself, looking over at John.

"Take care of him, John. I trust you will get in contact with me if there are any changes?"

John nodded slightly. "Thank you, Mycroft."

The older Holmes brother said nothing after that, taking one last look over at the man in the bed before turning and leaving the room.

And John was alone.

He stood with Sherlock for close to an hour, just watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and letting it be a small comfort to him. He tried not to think about the fact that his steady breathing was not his own.

Eventually, a knock at the door roused John from his dazed state, and Dr Reynolds stood in the doorway.

Small talk followed, and John forced himself to engage in conversation as they walked out to the nurses’ station together. They sat side by side behind the desk, John's knees knocking on the edge of the table in front of him.

David took his time briefing John on Sherlock’s condition. He spoke with confidence and conviction, neither of which John felt he possessed at this moment in time.

“Basically, it’s what you would expect of an advanced bacterial pneumonia.” David said, pointing to a black-and-white chest x-ray film on the computer in front of him. “Mainly right-sided, but the left is showing some involvement too. That right lung was almost totally collapsed when we scanned him in A&E.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face, screwing his eyes closed just for a second in an attempt to regain some composure. “What’s the plan?”

“Continue IV antibiotics, get him off that vent as soon as possible. The last thing we need is a secondary infection. We’ve cultured some of that drain fluid to find out exactly what it’s growing, so we can alter the treatment plan accordingly. It’s a day-by-day process with him at the moment John, we’ll aim to bring him round from sedation in a few days and see if he copes off the vent. Until then, we’ll just continue what we’re doing and keep an eye on him. Sound good?”

John nodded quietly, feeling rather out of his depth and small in the moment. Doctor Reynolds smiled slightly at him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“John, why don’t you go home and take some time for yourself? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” David said quietly, keeping his voice low to avoid the nurse sat beside him hearing them. John swallowed thickly, shaking his head quickly.

“I’m alright,” He was unsure who he was trying to convince. His eyes were growing ever-so-slightly foggy around the edges and he noticed his breaths coming slightly quicker. “I’m going to go and sit with him.”

David nodded, rambling on about how John could go to him if he needed anything at all and to let the nurses know to call him if there were any problems. John wasn’t really listening; he was far too focused on the sweat beading on the back of his neck and the unbearable heat of this room.

All he could think about was making sure Sherlock was safe. He’d _failed him._

_What kind of doctor am I?_

_Useless._

_Waste of space._

He rose from his chair, exchanged the usual pleasantries with the doctor and walked briskly to Sherlock’s room, closing the door hard against the frame and cringing at the loud bang it created. He was dizzy, wobbling on the spot. He stood with his back against the door for a few minutes, eyes closed and trying to slow his too-fast breathing.

It took him a few tries to open his eyes again, and he quickly realised it was a bad idea. A wave of nausea hit him like a brick wall, and John felt his heart kick-start in his chest like a drum. The room tilted on its axis, his vision dimming in and out. Everything was too fast and too bright and he couldn’t breathe and then his face met the floor.

  
He could smell the disinfectant on the linoleum; see the vague outline of the furniture. His ears barely registered someone saying his name and something hard pushing at his back before everything was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is short, but I wanted to offer you something after all this time. 
> 
> I'm struggling slightly with my motivation at the moment, hopefully it'll be back soon! 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, comments and kudos are always welcome!


	6. Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, literally.

Coming round was a slow process.

His ears registered first; mumbled chatting a few feet away. Male voices? Lestrade?

There was a beeping coming from somewhere, slightly quick but steady none the less. Whirring of machinery perhaps?  
There was a pinch in the back of his left hand, and a tickle under his nose. His eyes were the last to respond, and the muffled voices came to a halt as his eyelids twitched in their attempt to open.

"John?" Definitely Greg, then. "John, are you awake?"

John took another moment to open his eyes, and for a second nothing but white overcame him. He almost panicked, until slowly the world around him came into focus.

Greg's face loomed over him, soft eyes and a slight wrinkle on his brow. He was horizontal, then.

The ceiling was bright white painted tiles, and as John looked down at himself, he noticed the familiar pattern of a hospital gown.

Shit.

"What the-" He started, pushing with his arms behind his back in an attempt to sit up.  
Greg was right there, a hand on his chest pushing him back.

"Woah, just sit there for a minute mate." John watched him reach up and press a button on the wall, which illuminated red. He could only guess he'd called a nurse.

John frowned at him, irritated. "It was only a panic attack, happens all the time." He grumbled. There was a blood pressure cuff wrapped tightly around his right arm, and wires led out from under the papery gown he was wearing. "All of this really isn't necessary. Where's Sherlock?"

The man Greg had been talking to stepped forward then. Of course; Mycroft.

"My brother is just the same, no changes to report." He took a step forward then, taking Greg's place before John.

  
"You, on the other hand, may have had a panic attack, yes, but you collapsed behind the door to Sherlock's room. By the time they got in you were out cold, they had to pump you full of fluids just to get your blood pressure back up, and your oxygen saturations were low." John's eyes dropped, staring at his hands as the other man lectured him. It made him feel young and vulnerable. "Don't you dare try and tell me this is all unnecessary, John."

  
Mycroft had a gaunt expression on his face, anger and annoyance clearly present. John was slightly shaken, and let himself relax back into the bed slightly. His head was pounding, and he had to admit he was exhausted.

Up until this moment, he hadn't attributed the pinching in his nose to a nasal oxygen cannula, but now it was all too obvious, the whoosh of it tickling slightly. There was an IV in the back of his hand, and his eyes followed the tubing up to a bag of saline and a pump at his bedside. The rate, he recognised, was set to run as stat.

He winced slightly as he eyed a clear tube leading off the side of the bed. Catheter, yuk.

As if on que, a short woman walked in, obviously a nurse. She smiled sweetly at John, her short blonde hair reminding him of the young Marilyn Monroe.

"Nice to see you back with us, Doctor Watson." She beamed. "I'm Aimee, I'm the nurse that's been looking after you. Is there anything I can do for you?"

John frowned. "What time is it?"

She double checked her watch. "It's twenty past ten. PM."

John's eyes widened, and he forced himself to sit back in the bed. Why did he keep stiffening up?

Aimee busied herself around John's bed, and Greg and Mycroft stepped back to let her in. She pressed some buttons on John's monitor, and he felt the familiar sensation of the cuff on his right arm tightening.  
"What happened?"

Aimee stopped what she was doing, leaning into John's view. She smiled again.  
"I'll get one of the doctors to come and speak to you, why don't you try and get some sleep?"

John nodded, of course she wouldn't be able to go into the detail that he wanted. She was scribbling down on her chart now, transferring the information from the monitor.

  
John watched through half lidded eyes, hand fiddling with the sats probe on his finger, as she swapped the almost-empty bag of fluids for a new one. Still stat rate; blood pressure no better then.

He'd slept so much already, it must have been at least 13 hours since they'd settled Sherlock in ICU. Why was he still so tired?

He found himself drifting off without warning, Greg's steady hand on the top of his arm waking him only slightly.

"Get some rest, mate." He said quietly. "I'm going to sit upstairs with Sherlock. I'll come back with any updates, okay?"

John didn't even have the energy to argue, nodding slightly as his mind pulled him back into sleep. Aimee lowered his bed from the control panel, and that was that

\-------

 

When John came back around, it was dark. Mycroft and Greg weren't in the room. A voice was saying his name, and not one that he recognised.

There was still a beeping in the room from the monitor, but it was quieter now. John was thankful for that.

  
A light was flicked on, and he followed it to see Aimee, the nurse, turning on a small bedside lamp.  
As he looked back round, his eyes came to rest on the man he'd met yesterday, David. He smiled back at him.

"You've had quite the day, haven't you?" The consultant laughed slightly, his voice hushed. John concluded that it must be late now.

"Apparently so, did you hear what happened?"

David laughed again. "John, I was there. I was the first person on you when we got into the room."

John wanted the ground to swallow him up. How embarrassing it was, being a patient.  
"I don't remember." He said quietly.

"I'm not surprised." David replied, perching on the edge of the bed. "It took us ten minutes to get into the room, and you were completely out when we did. You need to look after yourself, John."

His face was stern now, like he was telling off a child.

"What do you mean?" John replied, the pain in his head starting to make itself known once more.

"You were severely dehydrated, teetering on the edge of hypovolemic shock. Your blood pressure was down in the 70s and we couldn't get your sats up. When was the last time you had a drink, or went to the toilet?"

John had to think about that. Yesterday, everything in him had been focused on Sherlock. Come to think of it, he hadn't touched a drop of water all day. The day before, he was travelling. He definitely had a glass of water with his breakfast, or was that the day before?

  
As for going to the toilet, yesterday morning perhaps?

"Shit." He said quietly.  
David nodded, a sad smile on his face. His hand reached over to clasp John's wrist. It was meant to be comforting, but John could feel his fingers pressing into his radial pulse, constantly monitoring.

"We think the adrenaline was keeping you going, but the panic attack and the hyperventilating just took your body over the edge."

There was a pause, and David's fingers tightened around John's wrist, getting his attention.

"I know you're worried about your friend, but you're no good to him in this state. You could have killed yourself, John."

John didn't say anything to that, mouth pressed closed in a hard line. He felt empty, like he'd let everyone down. His chest lurched at the realisation, and David glanced up at the monitor as the beeping intensified only a fraction.

"You should be up and out by the end of tomorrow, okay? Don't stress about it." David said quickly, eyes flirting between John's face and the monitor, his fingers still tight around John's pulse.

John let himself relax once more, tomorrow was okay. Sherlock would probably be ready to come off the ventilator by then, so long as all was going well. He nodded.

"Thank you, David. I'm sorry." He said quietly, looking the younger doctor in the eyes. David laughed slightly.

"Don't be sorry, I'm just glad you're alright." He smiled, standing and taking the chart from Aimee, who held it out for him. He flipped through the pages quickly.

"BP's still slightly on the low side, but I'm not concerned." He said quickly. "Let's get one more stat bag and then a four hourly."  
Aimee was nodding along to his words.

"Let's just do another ECG as well, just to be on the safe side. Still a bit tachy."

It was weird for John, seeing it from this side. He was lucky in a way, that at least he understood what was happening to him.

"I'll be by in the morning, John." David said quickly, leaning over him. "I'll be sure to let you know if there are any developments with Sherlock, okay?"

John thanked him quickly, and Aimee turned the lamp off before leaving behind him. John took a moment to crane his neck and get a look at the monitor.  
Heart rate was elevated, 117 now, and his BP was borderline 92/60.  
He sat back and sighed, eyes dropping again. The sound of the whirring fluid pump pulled him back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo I guess I took a different turn with this! 
> 
> Sorry it's been such a long time, work is busy and I don't get much time anymore. 
> 
> Hope you're enjoying it, despite the lack of any good storyline haha!
> 
> Comments and kudos would be lovely xx
> 
> (This fic is un-beta'd, sorry for any errors)
> 
> Glossary-   
> Nasal oxygen cannula - a device used to deliver small amounts of oxygen to patients (between 0.5 and 4 litres). Clear tubing that feeds into the nose via 2 nasal prongs. The other end connects to an oxygen supply. 
> 
> Stat rate - the fastest speed at which you can give fluids through an IV cannula. In this case, through the use of a pump. Stat fluid is given in patients with low blood pressure, and to replace existing fluid loss in the body.
> 
> Catheter - a tube inserted into the bladder through the urethra. Drains urine out of the body and into a bag, enabling for accurate measurement of lost fluid.
> 
> Hypovolemic shock - a condition that presents once 20% or more of the body's fluid or blood volume is lost. Will cause death if left untreated. Most commonly seen after traumatic blood loss, but can also be caused by severe dehydration.
> 
> Sats/sats probe - short for oxygen saturations, refers to the amount of oxygen present in the bloodstream. Optimal saturations on room air 94 - 99%, any lower will require supplemental oxygen. Measures using a sats probe/pulse oximeter, a small clip placed on the finger.
> 
> ECG - short for electrocardiogram, uses leads attached to the chest to produce a paper reading of the heart's electrical activity. Used to check for abnormal electrical impulses. 
> 
> Tachy - short for tachycardia. Refers to a resting heart rate over 100bpm. Can be completely harmless, but can also be a symptom of other conditions.


	7. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Control is one thing that John Watson always strived to have. Sadly, it doesn't always work that way.

John didn't think it was possible to be this tired.

It was 7am, and the overhead light in his room had just been turned on. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, becoming increasingly aware of a loud alarm somewhere above him.  
He cracked his eyes open to a young woman stood in front of him. She smiled, hands reaching down to grab the oxygen tubing, which had apparently fallen off during the night.

As she positioned it back on his face, prongs pointing awkwardly into his nose, she spoke.

"Good morning John, I'm sorry to wake you. I'm just putting your oxygen back, it must have fallen off in your sleep."  
She reached up then, fiddling with the monitor, and the noise stopped.  
_Oh,_  that alarm was coming from him.

"I'm Frankie, I'm your nurse for today."

John smiled back at her, and she picked up his chart. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." He lied, surprised at how croaky and thready his voice was. His head was still pounding, despite the endless hours of sleep, and his entire body felt stiff and painful. His muscles cramped constantly, and god, was he tired.

He'd come to a slow realisation that he really had fucked up this time.

Frankie saw right through him, her brow creasing slightly. "You don't want any pain meds? Are you sure?"

John was sure he flushed slightly. "I could have some, I suppose."

She went off to get him some, mentioning something about working with them in order to get better. John had said it to countless patients in his time, why was it so hard to take his own advice?

A junior doctor made his way in shortly after to do his ECG and take some bloods.  
John shifted awkwardly on the bed as the electrodes were stuck to his chest, struggling to stay still whilst the machine took a reading.  
He was thankful when it was over and he was covered up, feeling vulnerable and exposed laying there like that. He sat silently and without complaint while the young doctor took a blood sample from the crook of his right arm, and then left him in peace.

"Doctor Reynolds will come back with your results, Mr Watson."

John wanted to correct him on his title, but to be honest, he didn't really care enough.

The rest of the morning went without incident, he even had a few slices of toast for his lunch. The IV fluids were slowed slightly and he was encouraged to drink as much as possible to make up for it.

He was on the verge of sleep when the older Holmes brother entered his room.  
He cracked half an eye open, staring at the other man.

Mycroft sat down silently in the chair by John's bed, leaning forward slightly.

"John?" He said quietly. John would have called it soft or gentle, had he not known Mycroft Holmes well.

"Yes?" He replied, eyes opening a fraction.

Mycroft sat back, seemingly startled.  
"Oh! You're awake." He exclaimed, voice louder now.

John smiled at him. Mycroft seemed to gain more of a personality every time he saw him.

"What's up?" John asked, shifting round in the bed to face him better. He used the remote to sit himself up slightly.

"I just came to see how you were doing." He said softly. "And to apologise for what I said yesterday."

John's brow creased. "You don't need to apologise, I've been an idiot."

"No, John." Mycroft continued. "You were unwell and I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. My apologies."

John was slightly taken aback. He had never expected an apology for anything, never mind one coming from Mycroft Holmes himself.

"Thank you, Mycroft. How's Sherlock?" John changed the subject quickly.

"'My brother is doing well, the nurses report he has been attempting breaths against the ventilator, which is good news."

"That is good news!" John replied, a smile spreading over his face. "Are they planning to hold sedation soon?"

"They haven't mentioned anything to me." Mycroft replied. "So I'm unsure."

As if on que, a knock on the door sounded, closely followed by David sticking his head through the door. He smiled to the two men, and Mycroft swiftly got to his feet. John noticed the black umbrella in his hand.

"I'll give you some time, John." He said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a mobile phone. John recognised it to be his own, and took it gratefully as Mycroft handed it to him.  
"Do get in touch if there are any changes or concerns."

Mycroft nodded a hello to David as he stepped out of the room, and John wondered how the man had got hold of his phone in the first place.

David stepped in, John's chart in hand, and sat down in Mycroft's previously occupied seat. John eyed him as he flicked through the papers in his hand.

"How are you feeling, John?"

"Not bad. A bit sore, but that's to be expected."

David nodded. "ECG from this morning looks good, heart rate's coming down over time." He began.  
"Your blood results aren't bad, although you are slightly hyperkalemic. I want to continue the fluids until the levels are stable."

John closed his eyes and sighed, his heart lurching. "Guess that means I won't be out of here today, then?"

"Afraid not. I'm going to get chest physio to take a look at you as well, the nurses tell me that when your oxygen came off this morning your sats dropped to 80%."

John didn't move, anger bubbling at the surface that he was so helpless against all of this. A switch was flicked, and he felt himself starting to lose it.

_Oh god, not now. Come on John, you're fine, stay focused._

"You understand, John, we can't wean your oxygen off if it's dropping by that much."

"I know." He said between gritted teeth. The monitor beeping at his increasing heart rate was grating on his last nerve. Can he do nothing privately in this place?

  
His breathing was quickening now, saliva pooling in his mouth that he couldn't swallow. He felt the all too familiar tightening in his chest, the nausea hitting him like a brick wall.

"John, look at me?"

He couldn't, he couldn't open his eyes and subject himself to the torture of the bright lights above him, of the wires binding him down in this bed. He could have sworn he was going to vomit there and then.  
There were alarms blaring now, his chest heaving as he fought to keep his breathing steady.

He was losing control, every inch of his skin was burning hot, there was too much noise and too much light and he would have begged someone to let him out, had he been able to will his mouth to move and his voice to work.  
Everything was broadcast to the world, machines blaring and calling everyone to him, like an animal on show.

David was talking to someone, was it him?

"John, everything's okay. Just try and breathe."

It didn't feel okay, it felt like his entire body was on fire, close to melting point and not showing any signs of relief.

There were other voices, and then someone pushed something on his face, plastic, and held it there. There was a warm feeling travelling slowly up his arm, and then the lights went out.

John would have thought they'd knocked him out, if it weren't for the continued alarming of the monitor. His chest still heaved unnaturally, but things were definitely calming.  
The feeling up his arm washed over him like a wave, a warm blanket that wrapped around his insides and pulled him back together again.  
The pounding in his chest slowed slightly, and he felt like his lungs finally had the room to expand. He took a few deeper breaths, testing the waters.

"That's it John, just take some nice deep breaths for me." David's voice, steady and calm. "You're doing really well."

John could have cried, relief filling his lungs with every breath. The alarms slowly faded, one by one, the telltale beeping reminding him that he was still alive.

It was a few more long minutes before John felt brave enough to open his eyes.

David was sat beside him, staring at him intently, one hand wrapped around his wrist.  
It was then John realised how tense he was, rolling his shoulders and relaxing against the mattress.  
The thing on his face was an oxygen mask, and David stopped him as he reached up to remove it.

"Just leave it on for a while." He said softly. "Can't do any harm."

His eyes flitted across the room, the lights had been switched off, but the lamp was illuminating a small side table where Frankie was writing in her notes.  
John's eyes drooped, the last of the tension finally leaving his body.

"Wha-" he started, his mouth dry and uncooperative.

"Midazolam." David smiled. "Try and get some sleep."

John might have been annoyed that they'd sedated him, had it not felt so good to be free of the anxiety. Clearly, it had been necessary.

His eyes widened slightly as he remembered the side effects of the drug; respiratory depression, hypotension, bradycardia.

David spoke again, cutting into his whirring thoughts, as though reading his mind.  
"Don't worry, we're keeping an eye on you. Rest, John."

He didn't need telling twice, his eyes drifting closed. He was out within seconds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midazolam is a sedation drug. We use it at work to calm distressed patients as well as for aggression and alcohol withdrawal.
> 
> Hyperkalemia - a high level of potassium in the blood. Usually indicative of kidney problems, but common also in acute dehydration or following hypovolemic shock. 
> 
> Seems I've caught a writing bug, 2 chapters in 3 days?? That's unlike me! 
> 
> Poor John, I can't help but torture him a little bit while I've got the chance. Maybe I'll give him a break in the next chapter ;) 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, sorry for any mistakes yada yada yada, comments would be great! Xx


	8. Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps John can have a break for once?

This was getting a little tedious now.

John's eyes cracked open slowly. He noted that it took him a second longer to come round.  
_Oh yeah, sedated._

His room was still darkened, and Frankie was still perched at her desk in the corner, looking up at him from her paperwork. It can't have been that long since his 'episode', but John did wonder why she was still there.

It was so demoralising, having people see him like that, especially medical professionals. John had to constantly remind himself that his problems were mental, not physical.  
It made him slightly nauseous that he'd had to be sedated over a stupid panic attack.

The oxygen mask was still in place on his face, whistling ever so slightly at the constant stream it supplied. He glanced over to the fluid pump. The rate had been turned up a notch, and he rolled his eyes at the setback.

Frankie stood up then, squinting to see her patient in such dim light.

"John?" She questioned, leaning slightly over the bed. Her voice was quiet. "Are you awake?"

He coughed slightly, his throat sore and his jaw aching from clenching so tight. "Yeah."

She smiled, the light surrounding her in a soft glow.  
"How are you feeling?"

John had started to despise that question. He sat and thought about his answer for a moment. His limbs felt heavy from the after-effects of the Midazolam, and he still ached something awful. His headache had gone though, and the room definitely felt more peaceful.

"I feel okay." He replied, motioning to the oxygen mask. "Can we take his off now?"

Frankie let out a breath, leaning over and helping to pull it from around John's head. It was only quiet for a moment, until her hands reappeared, looping the familiar tubing of an oxygen cannula round his ears and into his nose.  
At least this was quieter.

"Is that better?" She asked. John smiled and nodded, chose not to tell her that he didn't want any of it touching him at all.

  
He must have drifted off again, because the next time he opened his eyes, the room was bright and Greg was at his bedside.  
The man smiled cheerily at him, leaning forward in his chair.

"Hiya mate, how you doing?" He asked, the beam on his face making John feel slightly happier, if nothing else.

"I'm alright." He replied. "Have you been with Sherlock?"

John's mind was plagued with images of the younger man, in pain or alone. It felt physically painful to not be next to him now; to not be the help that he needed.  
Greg nodded, still smiling.

"He's doing really well! Looks much better, he's breathing on his own now, sedation should come off tonight and then the tube can come out apparently!"  
John stiffened, and he noticed Frankie shoot Greg a concerned look out the corner of his eye.

"Don't let them wake him up until I'm there." He said loudly, his voice hoarse still. "You know he'll panic."

Greg's face fell slightly. "I don't think they want to wait, John."  
John's brow furrowed, and he looked over to Frankie, who was observing the conversation with a hardened look on her face.

"Chances of me getting out of here in the next few hours?" He asked her.  
The young woman shook her head silently, taking a step towards the bed.

"Not likely, that oxygen needs to stay on, and you haven't consumed your IV fluids yet."  
John bit his lip, staring into his lap and trying to come up with a plan.

"I'll tell you what," Frankie piped up. "Let me speak to Dr Reynolds, I'll see what I can do."

She leaned over to Greg quickly, and John strained in an attempt to hear her. Greg nodded in response to whatever was said, and she flashed a grin in John's direction before nipping out of the room.

John looked up at Greg, who was raising his eyebrows at him.

"What was that about?" He asked, shuffling slightly. Greg gave a small laugh in response, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"She told me to keep an eye on you."  
John rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but smile slightly.  
"Nurse Lestrade." He muttered, eliciting a chuckle from the other man.

  
Greg and John chatted idly for a while, until Frankie flitted back into the room, slightly flustered.  
"Right," she breathed. "Dr Reynolds will be here in a moment, we have a plan."  
She was beaming wildly at John, who just settled back slightly in the bed.

He knew, by this point, not to get his hopes up.  
Frankie had just finished repeating his observations (again) when David stepped into the room.

"Now then." He said loudly. "Shall we get you up to sit with Sherlock?"

John couldn't help the smile that spread across his face, and he sat forward, his enthusiasm pushing him past his tiredness.  
He moved to speak, but David had a hand up in front of him.

"There are conditions." He said, looking John in the eyes. He stepped further into the room, until he was almost too far into his comfort zone.  
He squatted down slightly, so that his eyes were level with John's.  
"Now, I don't think you're fit enough for this." He said, voice deep and steady.  
"But I know what it means to you, so I'm willing to make a compromise."

John leaned back slightly. "I'm listening."

"You can go up and be with Sherlock." David started. "But a nurse goes with you, and she will repeat your obs just like they've been doing here."

John was nodding along to his words, taking it all in.  
"If there is any concern over those observations, you're coming straight back up, okay?"

"Deal." John barely gave him chance to take a breath. "Let's go."

David chuckled, but left them to it. He'd pulled Frankie outside for a 'private' word beforehand.

By the time Frankie managed to get hold of a wheelchair for John, he was nearly asleep again. _Damn it, when would this tiredness give him a break?_

  
He grumbled a bit about the need for a chair, insisting that he was a grown man who was very capable of walking.

By the time Greg had helped him to stand, he was sweating and the colour had all but drained from his face. He took the chair silently, allowing Frankie to guide him slowly into it while he caught his breath.

Clearly, three days in bed could do that to you.

Being disconnected from the monitor gave John a sense of freedom, the remedial beeping finally gone from his mind. Frankie fiddled with the fluid pump for a moment, un-attaching the line from John's cannula before manoeuvring his catheter to hang from the back of the wheelchair. John would have asked for the awful thing to be removed had he been less exhausted.

The walk up to intensive care seemed to take forever. They walked slowly, Greg pushing the chair and Frankie carrying an oxygen cylinder behind him.  
When they turned the corner into the unit, Sherlock's door was open. John felt an odd sense of deja vu, having not been there for three days.

David was standing in the room, along with two other doctors. They were chatting, and turned as Greg pushed John towards them.

"Ah, John!" David said loudly, grinning at him. "Nice to have you with us. We've just begun weaning the sedation down."

John almost didn't hear him, everything too focused to Sherlock. The man looked better, he had to admit, but it was still a shock to him none the less.  
The tubes and wires were still in place, just as before, but he definitely looked brighter. The colour had returned to his face, and he was laid peacefully.

John almost cried as Greg pushed him alongside Sherlock's bed, and he reached his arm between the bars to clasp the other man's hand in his. It took him a moment to recognise his fingers twitching slightly.  
"Sherlock?" He said meekly, knees wobbling in an attempt to stand, to reach over and place a hand on his cheek.  
"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here." 

 

The other man's eyelids were twitching now, and John looked up to see one of the doctors fiddling with the infusion pump on the other side of the bed. 

Frankie appeared from nowhere, a hand on the small of John's back helping to keep him standing.  
He smiled slightly to her, the whites of his knuckles gripping to the bed rails in front of him for support. He couldn't worry about it; Sherlock needed him to be strong.

He squeezed Sherlock's fingers slightly. The man's face was moving side to side now, eyelids still twitching.  
"Sherlock? Can you open your eyes for me?"

A few long seconds passed, before John was rewarded with the piercing blue of Sherlock's eyes, gazing into his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm loving writing this at the moment, I hope you're all enjoying it! 
> 
> Same as usual. Sorry for any errors and all that, leave me a comment if you feel like it! Thanks for reading you lovely lot!


	9. Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things just don't seem to be getting any better for John.

Sherlock looked nowhere else, gaze piercing into John, eyes scanning his face. His fingers squeezed back, his brow furrowed. He whined slightly in the back of his throat.

John couldn't help but grin, his worries settled now that his best friend was properly conscious.  
"Don't try and talk, you have a tube in your throat." John kept his voice soft and quiet, squeezing Sherlock's fingers once more.  
"The doctors will talk to you for a minute and then we'll take it out, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock's eyes darted between the people stood by his bed, returning to John each time. John didn't know where to put himself, knees shaking in an attempt to remain standing despite his exhaustion.  
His vision was blurring ever so slightly at the edges, and he squeezed his eyes tight shut for just a moment; a desperate attempt to regain some control of his failing body.

Frankie leaned forward into his eye-line. "Are you alright John?"  
He swallowed thickly, nodding.  
"Just a bit dizzy."

Frankie took a step round, her body coming slightly in front of where John was hunched over Sherlock's bed.  
"Let's just sit down for a bit, okay?"

John would have argued, had he not felt like he was about to fall over. His knees wobbled as he sat, landing gently thanks to some help from Frankie.  
"Take some deep breaths." She said softly. "It should pass."

John knew it would pass, of course he did, but he wished it would pass sooner. The whole room spun uneasily in front of him, and he took deep breaths through his nose to calm it. At least it seemed to work.

He hadn't realised how long he'd been sat there, head down and focusing on breathing. As he looked up, he caught David with a tube in his hand. It took him a moment to recognise that it was the same one that had, a few seconds ago, been down Sherlock's throat.  
The detective was coughing hard; a younger doctor that John didn't recognise was helping him sit forward. As he settled back, David looped an oxygen cannula into Sherlock's nose and round his ears.

Sherlock's eyes never left John's face.

"Well done, Sherlock." David said, fiddling with the monitor above the bed. "Do you feel alright?"

The older man calmed his breathing slightly, actually looking quite put together by the time he'd composed himself. John would forever be amazed by Sherlock Holmes, at his ability to make even the worst situations look easy.

John looked up at the monitors for himself. Sats were good; everything seemed stable. He let himself have a small moment of relief.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said, voice slightly wavering from misuse over the past 3 days.  
"What's wrong with John?"

John was a little taken aback at that, hadn't expected to hear his name. Sherlock was staring at him intently, and he felt slightly vulnerable, the detective's eyes raking over his face. John could almost hear his mind whirring away, trying to deduce.

He tried to disguise a cough, which didn't work. Before he really knew what was happening, John was in the middle of a coughing fit and fighting to catch his breath. Frankie was kneeling beside him, a hand moving over his back in circles. He hunched over, relieved when the hacking subsided and he could get a proper breath in.

John wiped a stray tear from his eye, ignoring the burning in his lungs as he forced himself to sit upright.

Sherlock was looking at him, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed.

"Is there any reason you are not in a bed?"

"I'm fine." John replied. His eyes wandered awkwardly in his lap as he avoided the gaze of his best friend, pretended every atom of him did not ache to lay down and sleep. "I wanted to be here when you woke up."

"John, you're clearly not well. You're putting yourself at risk."

John looked up at that, his own eyes narrowed at that comment.  
"Like you can talk about putting yourself at risk. I'm not the one that gave himself pneumonia from not looking after himself!"

His voice was booming in his own ears, and he regretted the surge of anger immediately.

Sherlock said nothing, and John rode a small wave of guilt at the sadness in the detective's eyes.

"You scared me, you idiot." John's voice was softer now, and he reached forward to clasp Sherlock's hand in his through the bars.

"I'm alright." The detective replied. The words were clipped, and John knew how angry he must be at himself.

There was silence for a few moments, John and Sherlock just staring at each other. Frankie and David stayed quiet, and it happened that the loudest sound in the room was John's heavy breathing.

David interrupted timidly, as though he didn't want to break up the touching moment between the two friends.

John sat back in the god awful wheelchair and sighed as David chatted to Sherlock. He was still exhausted, knew without checking that his blood pressure was low. His hands were shaking, fingers cold to touch. He took deep breaths through his nose, trying to calm his spinning head.  
It was irritating; shouldn't he feel better by now?

The next hour flew by. David talked to Sherlock about next steps in his recovery, and Sherlock agreed to cooperate with the physiotherapists and play an active roll in his treatment plan.

John didn't do much; just sat there, uncomfortable, and watched the goings on in the room. His eyes were burning, and he longed so badly to just close them and sleep.  
Had this chair not been so uncomfortable, he might have done just that.

His drifting was interrupted by chatting, and he turned to see Frankie talking to another nurse. He recognised her as Aimee from yesterday, and gave her a slight smile from where he sat.

As Frankie handed over to Aimee, John tried not to listen. He didn't want to hear her describe his symptoms, he could feel them enough as it was. He focused himself on Sherlock instead, the other man still listening to the Doctor talk.

A small pair of hands appeared around John's right bicep, leaving behind a blood pressure cuff.  
"Sorry John." Aimee said softly. "Just need to check your blood pressure."

The clip made its way onto his left index finger once more as the cuff blew up, and John groaned as the pressure exasperated the tingling in his hand.  
A thermometer was in his ear, and then out. He heard Aimee sigh.

"You've got a temperature." She said quietly. John could have screamed.

"What is it?" He asked her.

"38.9"  
The cuff deflated. "Your blood pressure's low as well. 85 systolic."

John wanted the ground to swallow him up.  
He listened as Aimee told David, and his wheelchair was moved slightly backwards, just enough so that David could make his way round and kneel in front of him. John felt like a child getting a telling off.

"John, we need to get you back to bed."  
John looked at him with wide eyes, slouched over slightly.  
"I'm under strict instruction not to separate you and Sherlock, despite my arguments." David continued. John couldn't hold back a snigger. "So we're going to get another bed in here. Do you think you'll be alright for a few minutes?"

John swallowed thickly, nodded against the spinning in his head.

And that was that.

John watched, bleary eyed, as a second bed was pulled into the room. He wasn't really paying attention, and the mumbled chatting of the others went straight over him, swam around in his head like a foreign language he didn't understand.

David spoke to the ICU registrar, who agreed that under 'the circumstances', perhaps John could benefit from some closer monitoring.

John couldn't help but think that 'circumstances' may just refer to Mycroft Holmes.

By the time the bed was ready, John really was faltering. His blood pressure was dropping further, and his head felt heavy and useless on his shoulders.  
It took the help of three people to get him onto the mattress, and he could have cried in embarrassment; could hear Sherlock shouting at people to 'be careful, that's his bad shoulder'.

When the monitoring was attached, alarms blared at him. The cuff remained tight around his right arm. David was leaning over, telling him to take deep breaths and try and stay calm.  
John's brow furrowed; he was calm. This wasn't a panic attack.

These alarms, for once, were nothing to do with his anxiety.

"Blood pressure's coming up a bit." He heard David say, his voice barking orders at the more junior staff. "Let's put that oxygen up to four litres. Get those IV fluids back up. I'm going to go and speak to my reg."

John's tired eyes stared around the room. Aimee rubbed his shoulder gently.  
"We'll sort you out John, don't worry." She said softly. Her hand moved, attaching the fluids back to the IV port in his left hand.

"What's happening?" He asked quietly, surprised by how groggy he was. It was so odd, being confused in a setting he was usually so natural in.

"You've just dropped your sats a bit. Doctor Reynolds thinks maybe you've picked up an infection." Aimee said. She didn't look at John, hands busy at the fluid pump by his head. John recognised a bottle of IV paracetamol.  
"But we don't know yet. Chest infection seems the most likely considering the increasing oxygen requirement. He's going to discuss it with his registrar."

John nodded silently, letting his eyes close for just a moment.

At least he thought it was just a moment.

When he opened his eyes, it was to David at his bedside. He was seated, had taken John's right arm in his hand and was looking closely in the crook of his arm.  
"Sorry John, I just want to take some blood from you if that's alright."

John hummed slightly under his breath, shuffling in the bed.  
"Did you discuss with your registrar?" He asked, mouth twisting up into a smirk.

"I did." David laughed. "Bet it's weird for you to be on this side of things."

John nodded.

"I'm gonna do a full septic screen." He said, cleaning the inside of John's arm now. "They're on their way up to do a chest x ray, we're doing a full blood count, blood cultures, ABG, you name it we're doing it. Sharp scratch, John."

John cringed as the needle went in, but didn't feel anything after. David was finished in a matter of seconds. There was so much information to take in, but John couldn't find it in himself to be too bothered about it all. He was well aware of the process of screening for sepsis, just didn't expect for it to ever be done on himself.

"I think it's chest related. I'm prescribing some broad spectrum antibiotics either way." David continued, placing the now filled blood bottles in a plastic tray and removing the tourniquet from John's arm. "But we'll wait and see the x ray result."

As he got up to leave, he took a look over the monitors. John's eyes followed him to find Aimee writing her notes at the foot of his bed.

The next few hours were a flurry of people.  
David came back to do an ABG, and John was amazed by how much that needle hurt, plunged into his wrist in attempt to find an artery.  
His oxygen was turned up, his nasal cannula replaced by a mask once again. A radiologist came and did a chest x ray, and by the time the chest physiotherapists came around, John was exhausted.  
He was sweating from the fever, breathing quicker now than earlier. The two women introduced themselves, listened to his chest and had him cough as hard as he could. They looked at each other with frowns on their faces.  
"You are crackly on your right John, quiet in both bases."

He didn't care, just sat back and panted from the exertion. By the time they left, his oxygen was turned up yet another notch, and he'd well and truly had enough.

Throughout everything, John was painfully aware of Sherlock's eyes on him, brow furrowed and mouth closed in a thin line.

Amidst the chaos, Greg had apparently made himself scarce. Left with John and Sherlock was Aimee, who'd perched herself on a small table next to John's bed. She was alternating between writing in her notes and looking up at the monitors.

David had stepped out too, muttering something about reviewing blood results and coming back later. John wasn't really listening.

"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock's voice cut through the air like a knife, and it made John jump slightly.

The detective was staring at him intently, eyes wide and childlike. John hummed.

"'m fine." He mumbled, tiredness pulling at him.

If Sherlock replied, John didn't hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood Cultures - A test that checks for disease agents or bacterias present in the blood. A blood sample is grown in a laboratory to check for signs of infection.
> 
> ABG - Stands for Arterial Blood Gas. A small blood sample is taken from an artery, usually from the wrist, and can accurately measure oxygen saturations in the blood as well as levels of other gases such as carbon dioxide.
> 
> Sepsis - Or Septicaemia, refers to an infection that has spread and caused bloodstream involvement. The body's natural immune response to the infection can cause multi organ failure and death if not treated quickly with antibiotics. 
> 
> \---
> 
> I'm sorry! I can't help but torture John for just a little bit longer. 
> 
> I found this chapter really difficult, I must have written it about 4 times before I was semi-happy with the result. Its super long as well, couldn't bring myself to cut it down. 
> 
> I hope it's alright! I'm very aware of possible mistakes in this one, I've spent too much time staring at the same words haha! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, comments are always welcome! X


	10. Dire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has feelings, honestly.

The next few hours were horrible.

Sherlock could do nothing but watch as John deteriorated, as more doctors were called, as he slipped further away from reality.

Nobody would talk to him. He asked everybody that came close enough, but not one of them would tell him what was going on.

Sherlock racked his brain for all his limited medical knowledge was worth, but his strengths lay in his detective work, and he was out of his element. He looked at the numbers on the monitor by John's bedside, searched his mind for answers to the red flashing digits and what it all meant.

He blamed the drugs for his inability to diagnose; shouted at a junior doctor to stop his morphine immediately.

He overheard snippets of conversation between the medical staff; caught words like 'hypotension' and 'sepsis'.

It took over 2 hours for the crowd to dissipate, and even then a few remained. Sherlock had bitten down so hard on his lip that he could feel it beginning to swell.  
John looked awful, and Sherlock, although he never cared to admit it, was scared.

The doctor had remained unconscious throughout all the prodding and poking, his rising temperature forcing him into a fitful sleep. He would mumble incoherently every so often, and Sherlock would tense up, craning his neck to check on his best friend.

Sherlock's nurse appeared at his bedside a few times, concerned by his elevated heart rate. He shooed her away each time,

"Sherlock, if you don't calm down we will be forced to separate you and John. It's not good for you to be so stressed."

He made some snappy comment about her husband having an affair and she scurried off.

John's nurse, Aimee, had been kinder. She offered Sherlock water and chatted to him about John; where they met and how they knew each other.  
Sherlock found some comfort in that, in telling her about the man he knew John to be, not the weak figure in the bed before him.

John looked fragile, like any small touch might hurt him. Sherlock's yearned to reach out to his friend, to hold his hand and perhaps offer a little comfort if nothing else.  
Normally he would never have indulged in this kind of physical affection, but something told him that this time might just be an exception.

John looked so pale, and yet a flush was clearly present from the fever, the pink visible on his cheeks underneath the oxygen mask. Half of his face currently played host to a scruff of greying stubble, something Sherlock didn't recognise on John's usually shaven face.  
The doctor's eyes opened just a fraction, and Sherlock gave a small smile back to him.

"Sher, 're you alright?" John's voice was tired and gravelly. Sherlock wondered for a moment how they'd both ended up in this situation; sitting beside each other in their hospital beds.

"It's alright John, I'm fine." He replied. John blinked slowly, his eyes wandering around the room. He fixed his gaze on Aimee, who was stood up now, leaning on the end of his bed.

"I'm n't good, am I?" He mumbled. She smiled slightly.

"You'll be alright John." She replied, her voice calm and soft. "You need to rest, now."

He swallowed thickly, feverish eyes looking back to Sherlock.

Sherlock felt something in him jolt, a pang of sadness sitting heavy in his chest.

"Dn't you go anyw're." John said quietly. Sherlock could tell his voice was fading, eyelids drooping.

"I wouldn't dream of it." He replied.

John was asleep within moments, ragged breathing evening out slightly, and Sherlock took only a moment to look him over before looking up at Aimee.

"I'd like to speak to someone about his condition." He said, an edge of frustration in his voice. Aimee nodded politely.

"Of course." She replied. "I'll get Doctor Reynolds to speak to you."

  
It was a while before the aforementioned doctor appeared in the room. Sherlock dozed on and off, watching John with the rest of his time.

The lack of a clock in the room was incredibly frustrating, and it bothered Sherlock, probably more than it should have, that he had no concept of time.  
John laid quiet, sleeping fairly soundly baring in mind the circumstances. Sherlock thought that the sound of the oxygen must be very irritating for him; he remembered it from his short stint at home, before he'd ended up in this dreadful place.

When David did enter, he smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock did no such thing in reply.

"I hear you have some questions for me, Sherlock?" He said, pulling a blue plastic chair into the room with him and perching beside Sherlock's bed.

"What's happening to John?" He said curtly. A smile did not grace his face. David inhaled sharply and coughed.

"We think John's got sepsis, which is whe-"

"I know what sepsis is." Sherlock interrupted. "How has he contracted it?"

"Well," David continued, frowning at Sherlock for the interruption. "from looking at his x ray, there's a pretty obvious chest infection. My guess is that it's developed since he collapsed on Tuesday."

Sherlock was taken aback, stiffened and tilted his head at the doctor.  
"Nobody told me about that." He said sharply. David sniggered.

"Sherlock, you were sedated and ventilated, how on earth were we to tell you?"

Sherlock ignored that comment.

"How did he collapse? Why?"

"He had a panic attack."

Sherlock's heart sank.  
He had never been amazing at handling John's PTSD, but at least he could have been there to remind him to breathe; to make him a cup of tea once it was all over.

David continued, "He was severely dehydrated; needed quite a bit of fluid resuscitation. He didn't properly come round for over 12 hours afterwards." There was a small moment of silence as Sherlock digested.  
"The dehydration will have left him susceptible to illness, it's not surprising that he's picked something up."

"And you let him leave his bed for what reason?" Sherlock probed. He could feel himself getting angrier at the consultant. His best friend was apparently severely unwell, and yet his doctor had allowed him to sit in a wheelchair, unmonitored, for over an hour.  
"Do you buy your doctorate on the internet?"

David pursed his lips and sighed.  
"John knows his own mind, he is a doctor himself."

"A doctor with a severe chest infection and sepsis! How on earth can you think that he was sound of mind?" Sherlock was shaking slightly now, his breath slightly quicker.  
"That man was unwell, going through a traumatic experience and was emotionally unstable. You, despite all of this, allowed him to make decisions that impacted his health. What kind of doctor are you?"

Sherlock and David just stared at each other for a few seconds, David's mouth agape and his mind whirring for an answer to satisfy Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock scoffed, eyes moving over David's face slowly and deliberately. He rolled his eyes.

  
"What's his treatment plan?" Sherlock interrupted the consultant's silence. He had no time for waiting around for the mumbling idiot to make an excuse for his actions. The damage had already been done.

He needed to help John, needed to make him better.

"Well," David began. He stood up from his chair, eyes flitting over to the monitor above John's bed for a moment.  
"We've started IV antibiotics, so he should improve as they start to work. His kidney function is dire, so we'll sort a referral to renal, and the respiratory team will see him as well."  
He took a breath, looking at the man in the bed as he spoke.  
"Aside from that, continue fluids and monitor him. If his saturations drop again we might have to consider some kind of ventilation."

Sherlock looked at him blankly, wished he'd never asked. He didn't have anything more to say, just nodded and left his mouth closed.  
David asked him quietly if he had anymore questions, then congratulated him on his own recovery, scurrying from the room upon the realisation that he would get no more from Sherlock Holmes.

Aimee was stood in the doorway, smiling sadly in his direction.  
"He'll be alright, Sherlock."

  
Sherlock sat quietly for the remainder of the afternoon, and John slept fitfully beside him. Aimee stepped in and out often, fiddling with John's IV lines and repeating his observations. Sherlock tried to pay no mind to the numbers flashing on the monitor, stared into space while another nurse took his own blood pressure.  
The nurse kept reminding him that he needed rest. It took over four hours for him to give in to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if I'll ever have enough of torturing these two, I'm sorry!  
> Thank you so much for reading. As always, comments are welcome xx


	11. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s brain wasn’t working.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a looooooong one. (Sorry) 
> 
> Lots of medical stuff in this one, there’s a glossary at the end.
> 
> Hope you like it, I’m a fan of this chapter!

John's brain wasn't working.

He didn't know if that was an appropriate medical diagnosis, but it was the only way he could think to describe how he felt in the moment.

Nothing made sense, the voices of other people in the room floated within a cloud of deep fog in his head. When he opened his eyes, the room tilted violently to one side.  
Amongst the spinning, he made out the odd person. Greg was definitely there for a moment, then Mycroft. They leaned in close to him and said words that his brain couldn't make out.

There had been a long period of time when the simple task of breathing was taken from him, plastic covering his face and forcing his lungs to expand and contract.   
He had no control. Every time he tried to take the damned thing off, hands held him down and the world went fuzzy at the edges.

Voices shouted at him, but he couldn't make out the words. He was too hot and too cold but his limbs were too heavy to do anything about it. He couldn't even push himself up, couldn't lift his hand to wave for somebody to help him, to get him out of this misery.

There were things touching his body, leads and wires and itchy hospital sheets.   
Occasionally, a hand would fit into his and he would allow himself a moment to relax; to endure the torture and just enjoy the warm human touch.   
Then the hand would pull back, and it would return; the pain and the fear and the _oh god, please let me out._

He opened his eyes fleetingly, greeted by another face he didn't recognise or the white speckled tiles above his head.

Eventually, John was given control of his own breathing again. The horrid plastic was taken off, replaced by something much lighter that sat over his mouth and nose. It took a minute to get used to, but it seemed to do the trick.

It seemed to be getting easier though. Each eye opening would be less blurry and more stable. Each word sounded more like the English language.

It was a beautiful moment when his brain finally managed to discifer the noise into something he understood.

"John?" Female voice. He did recognise it; one of the nurses, perhaps.   
"John, can you open your eyes for me?"

He did as he was asked, annoyed that it seemed to take him a ridiculously long time to do so.

It took a few moments for his vision to focus, and yes, he definitely recognised the face in front of him.

"That's it." Aimee said quietly. Her eyes were soft and a sympathetic smile played on her lips. "How are you feeling?"

John had to think about that.   
The world was still foggy, but significantly better than he remembered. He couldn't describe it as pain, but there was definitely an uncomfortable pressure in his chest that he couldn't quite shift. Breathing wasn't difficult, but he had to focus to pull enough air into his lungs.

"M'alright." He mumbled, voice gravelly and strained.

"That's good!" Aimee replied, cupping John's left hand atop the bedsheets.  
John reached up with his free hand to scratch an itch on his neck. He'd felt the bloody thing before the nurse had a chance to pull his hand away.

"Careful. You've got a central line, John."

His arm was heavy and swollen as she placed it back down on the bed.   
When the hell did they put a central line in? How did he not remember that?

"What day is it?" He murmured, voice unbearably quiet.

"It's Thursday. You've been in and out of consciousness for nearly six days." She said softly. John frowned at her. Six days? "I've already bleeped your consultant, so he knows you're awake. He'll be by to see you soon. Shall we get you a little more comfortable?"

John swallowed hard and nodded at the young woman. He couldn't deny that he was very uncomfortable, a pillow propping him slightly onto his left side certainly hadn't been his choice.   
Another young nurse came into the room, helped Aimee to roll him and rearrange his pillows. John added a left ICD to his ever growing inventory, the thick tubing pulling at the stitches that held it in place. He succumbed to a wash at the same time, giving in to aid from the two women due to the weakness of his own limbs.

Every movement was hard work, and the wash was almost a waste of time once he'd got comfy, sweat beading on the back of his neck.   
The two nurses finished straightening the bedding, organising wires and taping down rogue connections. Johns eyes caught on the large-bore arterial line in his left wrist. His hand was splinted to prevent it coming loose. Christ, things must have got bad.

It had taken him this long to recognise that the room he was in was not as he remembered. Mainly due to the lack of another bed, and the distinct absence of Sherlock Holmes.

He almost asked about him, before a tuft of unruly black curls sprouted from the opening of the doorframe. Stood, looking possibly healthier than he had his entire life, staring at John with a slight smirk, was the man himself.  
As he made his way the few steps towards John's bed, small signs told John that the younger man wasn't yet completely recovered. He cradled his chest as he walked, his proud gait now more of a shuffle. He looked good though, and John had to wonder who he'd shouted at to get two chest drains removed and be up and about within three days of extubation.

"Thank god for that, I was about to die of boredom." The detective exclaimed loudly, throwing himself unceremoniously into a blue plastic chair by John's bed. John couldn't help a small smile.

 

❧

  
"Ah, John!" The consultant beamed at him. John thought for a moment that nobody had ever been this happy to see him before. "How are you feeling?"

He pulled up another chair beside the bed, sat himself down at John's eye level. Sherlock had moped off while John was napping, mused something about needing a proper cup of tea.

John smiled slightly. "I'm okay." He said quietly, voice still hoarse and painful. He reached for the glass of water on the table in front of him, and David lifted his oxygen mask to enable him to take a drink.   
"Can we take this off?" He continued.

David smiled, taking the glass from John and settling the mask back on his face.   
"Not yet, John." He said softly. John nodded.   
"Do you remember what happened?"

John shook his head.

"Do you know where you are?" David continued.  
John almost scoffed at the question, but his brain slowly reminded him that it was not unusual for sepsis to make you confused. Maybe there had been a time where he wasn't so coherent.

"I'm at Barts." He replied, annoyed by how muffled his voice was. "Intensive care?"   
John had to admit, the time between bringing Sherlock in and now was slightly fuzzy. He remembered the ambulance, and the scene in a&e. The memory made him shudder.   
He vaguely remembered coming round after his panic attack, confused by his surroundings and disorientated. It wasn't a feeling he wished to replicate.   
Everything after that was blurred and uncertain. There were flashes; bloods being taken and people talking to him, but nothing cohesive.

"That's the one." David grinned. "What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Good, I think you're back with us."

John creased his brow, and David let out a breathy laugh, shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face.   
"We had some issues with confusion. It was all sepsis related, but when you were awake, you were non-compliant and quite agitated. We managed quite well with some very light sedation."

John didn't want to hear that; hated to think of himself being a nuisance to anyone.   
"I'm sorry." He croaked.

David reached over and placed a hand over his.   
"Don't be daft, you don't need to apologise. We're just glad you're back."

David went through the events of the last six days calmly and methodically for John, stopped to answer questions and queries where needed.

John cringed at how close he'd been to needing intubation, recoiled slightly when David told him that BiPap had been a last-ditch attempt at maintaining his airway without intervention.

"Your sats just weren't maintaining and you didn't have the energy to cough all the gunk out from your chest." The consultant said softly.   
"The infection was more aggressive than we anticipated, took hold very quickly. Hence the drain." He motioned to the ICD hanging from the bed on John's left side. John just stared at him.

"Anyway, we avoided invasive ventilation, which is good. The BiPap came off this morning, the humidified oxygen is doing the trick as a replacement. As long as you don't take it off." He raised his eyebrows, John frowned back at him.  
"This is going to take a while to bounce back from, John. You've spent nearly a week in bed critically ill, and your body will need some time to recover."

John nodded meekly, his head heavy on his shoulders.

"Thanks." He managed quietly. David smiled.

"You're more than welcome, John. We've still got a way to go, though. You can thank me when you're discharged."

  
David left the room shortly after, telling John that a new plan would be made in the morning on ward round. John was informed that it was half past six in the evening.   
Intensive care was a strange place. John's room was isolated, and there was no daylight to give him any indication of time passing. He thought for a moment that they must have moved him; he could vaguely remember the long windows in Sherlock's room the first time round.

He sighed as he looked down at himself in the bed. His limbs were obviously oedematous, slightly swollen and puffy. He could raise his hands, but they were heavy and not very cooperative. His left hand played host to his new friend; the arterial line, and he wondered silently when it could be removed, the splint around his wrist rubbing painfully.  
The right hand was much more free, only tethered by a sats probe on his index finger. A peripheral cannula was sited in the crook of his right elbow, although it was capped off and not in use. The one in his left hand from before had clearly been removed.

The central line was bugging him already, the sticky plastic dressing irritating the skin on the right side of his neck and making him itch. He reached up a hand to feel around it, finding three ports, all of them running and in use.   
The one fluid pump at his bedside six days ago had turned into three, each running something different through the line in his neck. He recognised a bag of TPN hanging from one, hadn't even thought of nutrition as being a factor in his recovery. He didn't care enough to look at the other two.

  
John must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing he knew, Bach was swimming round in his head. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was stood in the corner, violin in hand. He continued playing, the music singing over the hiss of oxygen, his conscience clearly not marked that he'd woken up a severely ill person.  
John would like to say it annoyed him, but Sherlock's playing sounded like home; warm and tangible and real. His eyes were flickering shut again when it stopped.

Sherlock took a few steps towards John, his face soft and eyes kind. The glimmer of sadness was unmistakeable. He took a seat in the plastic chair once more, shuffled closer to John and looked at him with wide eyes.  
"Do you know who I am now?"

John said nothing, just frowned at him.

"Last time you woke up you didn't." Sherlock continued. John sank a little bit at that, his chest tightening ever so slightly at the thought of upsetting his best friend.

"M'sorry." He mumbled, mouth dry from the oxygen.   
Sherlock got to his feet, holding the mask aside and helping John guide the glass of water to his lips. John thought water had never tasted so good in his life.

"You don't need to be sorry." Sherlock said softly, returning the mask to John's face. "I'm glad you're back."

John allowed himself to bathe in that for a moment; that he was alive, and Sherlock Holmes, of all people, was glad of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY 
> 
> Central Line - Also known as a Central Venous Line. A catheter placed into a large vein, usually in the neck or groin, for administering fluids, medication or nutrition over a longer period of time. Central Lines can remain in longer than peripheral lines, and can be used to give large amounts of fluid quickly. They can have multiple ports (lumens), and so several things can be run at once. They can also be used to take blood samples from.
> 
> ICD - stands for Intercostal Chest Drain. A drainage tube inserted through the chest wall and into the pleural space. Drains air or fluid from the intrathoracic space in the chest cavity. 
> 
> Arterial Line - a thin catheter inserted into an artery. Often used in intensive care medicine to monitor blood pressure directly, and for repeated blood gas samples.
> 
> Intubation - (In this case tracheal intubation) Placement of a tube into the windpipe, to maintain an open airway and to facilitate ventilation of the lungs.
> 
> Extubation - Removal of the tube placed during intubation. 
> 
> BiPap - Bilevel Positive Airway Pressure. A type of Non Invasive Ventilation, provides pressure via a face mask both on inhalation and exhalation to keep the airway open and facilitate breathing and oxygenation. Prevents need for intubation. 
> 
> Oedematous - (oedema) An accumulation of fluid in the tissues of the body. Tends to present in extremities such as ankles and wrists. Can be caused by fluid overload, and is very common in patients receiving high doses of fluid in intensive care units. 
> 
> Peripheral Cannula - a small catheter inserted into a vein just under the surface of the skin. Can be used to give medicines and fluid. Need to be changed or removed every 3 days. 
> 
> TPN - Total Parenteral Nutrition. Intravenous feed, a nutritional formula that is made up based on levels picked up in a patient’s blood tests.


End file.
